


recipes for diaster

by lagaudiere



Category: Burnt (2015)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 12:26:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,572
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5290730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lagaudiere/pseuds/lagaudiere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Chefs are nutters. They're all self-obsessed, delicate, dainty, insecure little souls and absolute psychopaths. Every last one of them." --Gordon Ramsey</p>
            </blockquote>





	recipes for diaster

**Author's Note:**

> the movie burnt (2015) was a sin so i improved it. dedicated to my muse and only audience dana.

It started the way love stories start. They met in Paris. 

There was, Tony reflected later, nothing worse or more cliche than telling your therapist the story of how you met the unrequited love of your life. They talked about Adam before they talked about his childhood. 

This was the essential difference difference between them, Tony sometimes thought. Apart everything fell apart, Adam went to America to shuck oysters and Tony went to London to sit on a psychoanalyst's couch and run his father’s restaurant. 

She said, when he pressed her on what she really thought, that his attachment to Adam represented his sense of inferiority and a substitution of an unattainable ideal for attempting to form real relationships. Of course, that was before she knew Adam. 

They were both addicts, and like they said in AA, you never really stopped being an addict. All you could really do was cope. 

*** 

They met on the sixth day Adam asked Jean Luc for a job. There were twenty-one days ultimately; on the tenth day, Jean Luc started letting Adam cook for him, and by the eleventh, they all knew he would get the job. Jean Luc liked making people work for it. 

Tony didn’t know on what day Adam met Ann Marie. 

But they met on the sixth day, when Tony came into work and found a stranger kicking the wall in front of the building, swearing loudly in English. 

“Hey, what the hell are you doing?” Tony calls, grabbing him by the shoulder. “Do you know where you are? This is a prestigious restaurant!” 

“I know exactly where I am,” the man spits. Then a look of sudden hope comes into his eyes. “Hey… do you work here?” 

“Of course I work here. I asked what the hell you were doing, if you recall.” 

“I’m applying for a job,” he says, and sticks out his hand. “Adam Jones. Chef.” 

Tony narrows his eyes. “I doubt that.” 

Adam Jones was standing strangely close now, looking somewhere on the edge between eager and panicked. “You haven’t tried my food yet. Neither has Jean Luc, by the way.” 

He’s now directly blocking Tony’s path into the building. “Yes, well, we usually don’t allow random men to come in off the streets and start working here.” 

“I’m good,” Adam said. “Not everyone has the advantages of formal training.” He narrowed his eyes at Tony. “I know who you are. I’ve been researching his staff. Antonio Belardi--junior, son of the Antonio Belardi who runs the Langham in London. You came here to establish a reputation as a chef outside of the family legacy. You studied at Le Roche in Switzerland. And people say you’re a better manager than you are a cook. No offense.” 

Tony didn’t even want to know where he found that much information. “All right. You impress me. And it’s Tony.” 

It was difficult, now that he knew Adam Jones was not quite a random lunatic, not to notice his looks. His eyes are almost frighteningly blue. 

“Tony,” Adam said. “I’ll bring you something to eat tomorrow morning. Maybe you can put in a good work for me with Jean Luc.” 

“Will you let me into the restaurant now?” 

“Oh. Yeah.” Adam steps aside awkwardly. “Hey, Tony. What do you want for breakfast tomorrow?” 

Tony can’t help but smile. “I like crepes.” 

*** 

“I worried about you,” Tony says, much later, in London. “A lot of us, you know, we thought you were dead.” 

“Surprised anyone cared,” Adam says. He was filleting salmon with cruel precision for a new recipe, avoiding Tony’s eyes. “I fucked you all over. I know I did.” 

There is paperwork to do, a million tasks to finish before the opening. He can’t start over last-minute like Adam can. He has to build something that lasts. “I called you,” Tony says. “You’re the one who didn’t answer. I--I never gave up on you, Adam.” 

Adam is still looking down at his hands, moving the knife mechanically with an ease Tony would never be able to imitate. “Thank you,” he says. “I really… I should have called.” 

“You should have.” 

“Now come over here,” Adam says. “I have some things I want you to try.”

***  
The crush snuck up on him quietly, but it was impossible to stop thinking about Adam Jones once you started. He commanded every room that he was in, especially the kitchen. People spun out of their orbits to revolve around him. Everyone sought his attention, and no one wanted it more than Tony. 

Adam, in turn, divided his attention more or less evenly between trying to impress Jean Luc, arguing with Reece, and flirting with Ann Marie--or, when she wasn’t around, other girls who looked like her and shared her appetite for sex, drugs, and spontaneity. 

He knew what a misguided fixation it was; there was no one more unobtainable than Adam. But their kitchen was so insular, they saw each other for hours every day. It was easier not to fight it. 

“Do you love her?” he’d asked, in Paris, close to midnight when they were the last two people left in the restaurant, finishing prep for the next day. Jean Luc had left hours ago and Ann Marie with him, though Tony was sure she hadn’t gone home. She was out on some dance floor, no doubt, waiting for Adam to join her. “Ann Marie. Do you love her?” 

It was a reasonable question. They were always together--outside of the kitchen, anyway. She clearly loved him. You could recognize the look in her eyes anywhere. 

“You know something?” Adam said quietly. “You can’t tell anyone I said this, but--I don’t know.” 

Tony nearly dropped the knife he was holding. “It seems like you do,” he said. “You certainly treat her differently than all your other girls.” 

“Well, she is different,” Adam said. 

“She can’t even cook.” 

Adam laughed. “You know something, you should come out with us tonight,” he said. “It’d be fun. You could even be our sober supervisor if you want.” 

Tony couldn’t imagine anything less appealing. “You go,” he said. “I need to get some sleep.” 

Adam shrugged. “Suit yourself,” he said, shaking flour off his hands. “But you need to get out more. Have fun. Meet someone.” 

Tony couldn’t help smiling at that. “Maybe,” he said. “But not tonight.” 

*** 

“I hate that show,” Adam says viciously while Tony’s flipping through channels. Tony, of course, instantly knows what show, and cycles right back to the Food Network. 

He’s been back in the hotel for a while now. They don’t get a lot of free time, of course, but it’s late, and the opening is so soon--who can sleep? 

Things are oddly comfortable between them now. They haven’t been friends like this in years. They haven’t been friends like this without being drunk, well, ever. 

“I mean, it’s not exactly Julia Child,” he says. “Oh look, they’re making lobster.” Onscreen, Alton Brown informs the contestants that one of them will be chopped. 

Adam scoffs. “You know, this show is everything that’s wrong with America,” he says. “No one who’s watching this show is learning anything about food or cooking. They’re just laughing at the spectacle of two guys trying to boil water while they’re handcuffed together. You know, after a few more years of this no one is going to give a shit about what we do.” 

“You’re so elitist,” Tony says mildly. 

“Excuse me, you’re telling me I’m elitist?” 

“I’m saying, you don’t anyone should experience cooking if it isn’t as pure as you think it should be. What if this is the show that makes someone cares about food for the first time? What if it makes them think they could be a chef when no one has ever told them that before?” 

Onscreen, Alton Brown is taking away stacks of money from a crying contestant. 

Adam laughs. 

“Point taken,” he says, and jabs Tony lightly in the ribs with his elbow, reaching across him to grab the remote. 

Someday, Tony will get used to this, to the light contact that should mean nothing. Someday, it will mean nothing, and he doesn’t know if that will be a relief or if it will feel like something has been lost. 

“I’m changing the channel,” Adam says. 

*** 

He noticed at once with Helene. She was exactly Adam’s type--his type for what amounted, by Adam’s standards, to actual feelings, not for one-night stands. She was an individual and a brilliant chef and she fought back, even with him. 

In a way, Tony had almost thought things were changing. He and Adam were a team now--there was an easy camaraderie between them now, and the kitchen worked better than it ever had. It made sense, the two of them working together. They balanced each other out. They made sense. 

Tony knew he shouldn't let himself think things like that. 

“What do you think about Adam?” Helene asked him one night, hovering nervously behind in the kitchen after hanging her apron up. “I mean. You know him best. Do you think he's getting better?” 

“I don't know if he's getting better,” Tony said. “If you get involved with him, you should think about what you want.” 

Helene looked at him suspiciously, hands on her hips. “I don't know what you mean by that,” she said.

“Like you said, I know him. He doesn't stay interested for long. He’s a hard person to love.” 

***

Reece was the reason everything changed. They all knew Adam was getting worse. Jean Luc was getting worse, too, his health failing, increasingly tired-looking, always worriedly muttering under his breath. And that made Adam worse, raising his voice, throwing pans across the kitchen, falling asleep on his breaks and vomiting in the alley outside, and that in turn made Jean Luc worry more. But it was Reece who was the turning point. 

Adam was always good with women. Too good with them. 

But that night, Ann Marie wasn’t with them. They went to a bar, the kitchen staff--Reece, Michel, Max, Adam, and Tony. Reece and Adam had been fighting all night--about what, Tony didn’t remember. Reece had gone back to the bar to get another drink and Adam had followed him, still haranguing him about the details of spice blends or some equally pointless topic. 

They were gone too long. 

Tony looked for him, of course, when he could, when he thought Max and Michel weren’t looking. When Adam was off holding court or flirting with some girl, his eyes always followed him. Adam needed someone to watch out for him--that was the way he justified it to himself, and it was partially true. If he could stop Adam from slipping away with some dealer or getting a black eye in an alley one time, it would be worth it. 

He didn’t think about where Reece was. 

“I’ll be back in a moment,” he muttered to Max and Michel. 

He scanned the dance floor, the bar, the tables in the back, checked in the bathroom with a growing dread of finding Adam passed out on the floor. This is ridiculous, he thought. It’s almost certainly nothing. But the reality was that with Adam, there was always a chance of the worst. 

He’d had a little too much to drink, probably, and it was a bad idea to walk out into the alley. In fairness, it did seem like the most likely location. 

“Adam?” he called out hesitantly. 

It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. Another moment for him to truly understand what he was seeing. Adam and Reece, together, kissing up against a brick wall outside in the alley outside some tawdry nightclub. 

“Adam!” he said, half shouting it, involuntarily too loud and too accusatory and too upset. 

They both broke away and turned towards him at once, clear guilt on both their faces. 

“Tony, god--” Reece starts angrily, but Adam interrupted. 

“Look this isn’t--what it looks like--I mean I know it is, but--this was a mistake.” 

He was clearly drunk and probably high, tripping over his words and teetering on his feet. His eyes were bloodshot. Tony didn’t want to know what he had taken. He felt like he was looking at Adam through glass, or underwater--it felt too distant, unreal. 

His pathetic straight boy crush was one thing, but this was different. Worse. The reason Adam didn’t want him wasn’t because he was a man. It was because he was a mediocre chef at best, meant to organize kitchens and not to create, who couldn’t keep up with Adam’s sparkling wit. It was because Adam wanted people like Reece. 

“Please don’t tell Ann Marie,” Adam said desperately. 

Reece cast a desperate look over his shoulder, clearly looking for permission to leave. 

“I won’t tell her,” Tony said. “But you should.” 

When the restaurant collapsed, when Adam disappeared, Reece was the first to leave. He had a promising career in front of him and a telegenic face. Tony was the one who stayed behind to help Jean Luc pack away every last utensil in the kitchen--Ann Marie hadn’t shown up for that either. His father was waiting for him back in London. He wondered which funeral he would have to attend first. 

There was always too much weight on his shoulders, back then. Everyone else could run--from themselves, to find themselves. He wondered if Adam even knew how lucky he was, to have so much room to run. 

***

He would be lying if he said there wasn't a part of him that worried, every time, that Adam wouldn't come back. Here and now, London was no less a city filled with shadowy dark corners and bad batches of drugs, and Adam was the same too. 

With his rumpled hair and clothes and the blood on his face and his general aura of despair, he looked more like himself than he had in years. And of course he had come here, to the hotel, and called Tony, with unclear expectations expect for someone to take care of him. 

And of course, being Adam Jones, he had decided this was the perfect time to start kissing unaware, unsuspecting people who he knew perfectly well were pathetically in love with him. 

The best maitre d in the world, Adam said, and what did that mean? It meant, you arrange that stage, and I’ll dance. You drag the furniture out of storage and set up the lighting and sell the tickets and raise the curtain and I’ll deliver the soliloquy that brings a tear to every eye in the house. Damn him, he always wanted to be the star. 

Helene stands there, blinks at them in what might be confusion. Adam stands there and, with characteristic entitlement, bleeds onto the floor of Tony’s hotel. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” Tony knows he sounds shrill, ridiculous, but if there were ever a moment that called for that, this is it. 

Adam has the audacity to continue to bleed. 

Helene stands to the side, looking panicked. “I should… probably go,” she says after a moment. Tony expects Adam to break in then, explain everything, plead with her to stay. He’s not going to let her get away so easily. He hasn’t even slept with her yet. 

But Adam says nothing, and she turns and walks out undisturbed. The sound of the lock clicking back into place after her is deafening. 

Adam runs a hand through his hand, sheepish. “Reese made me breakfast,” he says. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Tony snaps. 

“It means… I really fucked this up, didn’t I?” 

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Tony says. “Look, I don't know what kind of person you think I am, but if I'm supposed to be thankful for some pity kiss from the great Adam Jones, I'm not.” 

“It wasn't--” 

“There's still time to catch up with Helene,” Tony says bitterly. “Why don't you run after her and tell her you're sorry and the pair of you can motorcycle off into the sunset together.”

He starts to turn and go, but then Adam’s hand is on his shoulder, holding him in place. 

“I wasn't kissing you out of pity,” he says. “I kissed you because I wanted to.” 

Tony laughs, in a strangled kind of way. 

“I mean it,” Adam insisted. “Reece made me breakfast, and I couldn't stop thinking about you, what an idiot I was for not making you stay and not cooking for you and not telling you--” 

Forcefully, Tony shrugs his hand off. “I don't know what you took, but you don't mean this. You and Helene--” 

“Helene is like Reece,” Adam says. “Infatuation. But you, Tony, you're the one I think about at 2 am when I'm asking myself what mistakes I've made in my life. It's not Reece or Ann Marie or Helene. It's you.” 

His hand has somehow reached out again and is holding onto Tony’s, without Tony remembering allowing that. His eyes are so painfully blue. He has that look in his eye, that one Tony has always cherished every time he got it, that says the person he's looking at is the only person in the world at that moment interesting enough to be looked at by him. 

“I wanted to kiss you,” Adam says. “Even when you walked in here and told me it was impossible, even when you I saw you again for the first time since Paris, I wanted to. I just didn't know how to want that.” 

Tony’s mouth is dry. His head hurts. This, he thinks, is another question for psychoanalysis. What do you do when you get everything you wanted, but you know it can't be real? What kind of man takes that bargain, temporary happiness in exchange for the crash that comes after? 

“Can I kiss you again?” Adam says. 

“I think you should stay with David for a while,” Tony replies, and he turns on his heel and walks out. 

**  
“I'm not going to get better,” Adam had said--back then, in Paris. 

He’d dragged Adam to an AA meeting--not the first, of course. Tony had brought him to Alcoholics Anonymous, Narcotics Anonymous, even mass. That had ended, memorably, with Adam talking back to the priest. The power of Catholic guilt was not precisely a match for Adam Jones. 

“You’re not trying to get better,” Tony said under his breath. 

They always sit in the back of the room, unless they’re a circle, which Adam always resents. He never speaks, never admits to having a problem, as obvious as it is. But when Tony asks him to go, he does. 

He usually walks out, of course. He did today, and Tony followed him out into the rainy Parisian street. 

“I don’t need help from something like this,” Adam said. “I’m a chef, I can still cook. What else do you want me to do?” 

Function as a person, Tony wanted to say. Pull yourself together and be the person you could be, who we all know you should be. But he knew him too well. 

“You won’t always be able to cook,” Tony said instead. “You’ll lose your focus and your hands will start shaking. Someone will be better than you, before you know it.” 

“You know, Tony, you have a lot of nerve telling me how to live my goddamn life.” 

“Someone has to say this to you!” Tony shouted back. “Reece and Ann Marie aren’t going to tell you this, I am, I’m the one who cares enough to tell you what you need to hear!” 

“Oh, fuck you,” Adam spit. 

“You might not want to hear it, but it’s true,” Tony said. “You’re ruining your life, and it’s a tragedy, because you’re wasting your talent. You deserve it. And someday soon you won’t be able to cook at all, and you’ll regret it. You’ll regret it so much it might kill you.” 

**   
The restaurant functioned just fine without him for two days, though in many ways he wished it had not. 

That wasn't the worst part, though. The worst part was that he couldn't stop thinking about the kiss. 

After two days, though, he got the call. The one he had been anticipating, dreading, for months. 

“Mr. Belardi?” The voice on the other end of the line said, flat and calm. “I’m calling in regards to your father.” Her tone was so careful and calm that he almost knew even before she said anything else. 

There seemed to be no one else to call, afterwards. His father did not leave behind a large family or an expansive network. He left behind former colleagues, professional enemies, and impressed critics. He had lived his life as a devoted member of the trade and raised his son the same way. The hotel and the restaurant would be his legacy. 

So of course, it was natural to call Adam. He picked up on the first ring. 

“Tony? God, I’m so glad you called, I wanted to say--” 

“My father is dead,” Tony said blankly. 

It didn’t rain on the day of the funeral. It was attended by a few scattered Belardi family members, most of the finest old guard London chefs, hoteliers, and food critics, and Adam, who sat in the front row next to Tony and was solemnly quiet. 

Tony said a few words, mostly insincere; there was no point in trying to explain his father to these people who hadn’t really known him. In a way, perhaps it should have been Adam speaking. He could have delivered a eulogy for classical French cuisine and it would have rung more true. 

“I’m sorry,” Adam said afterwards, standing at the cemetery gates. “I know this isn’t a good time to talk. I just--I’m glad that you wanted me here.” 

Tony smiled wanly. “He would’ve wanted you here. He was proud of you.” 

“He should have been proud of you too,” Adam said, sounding almost angry. 

“It’s a little late for that.” 

Adam laughed hollowly. He was looking at Tony with that intense gaze again. His eyes were incredibly sad. Tony wondered if he looked the same. 

“You should come back to the restaurant,” Adam said abruptly. He clearly knew it wasn’t appropriate, but seemed determined to press on anyway. “It doesn’t run the same without you. Nothing works as well.” 

Tony stared down at his feet. 

“We all miss you,” Adam said, very quietly. 

Tony sighed. “The Langham is my responsibility. I’ve been unprofessional.” 

“You know that’s not what I meant.” 

“I’ll be back tomorrow.” 

***   
“Hey, Helene,” Adam calls into the kitchen, “Simone asked about you.” 

“What?” Helene looks immediately panicky, but Adam strolls back into the kitchen laughing. “Did she eat my food? Did she not like my food? Oh my God--” 

Adam laughs. “Relax,” he says, holding out a napkin to her. “She left you her phone number.” 

Helene blushes. “Really? Do you think I should call her?” 

“Of course you should!” Max calls from across the room. “Have you seen her?” 

Helene laughs nervously and turns her attention back to her work, tucking the notes from Simone into her apron. 

Adam, across the kitchen, catches Tony’s eye and smiles. It’s almost normal--normal between them and Helene, at least. They haven’t talked about what happened, but it’s there, hovering in the air between them. 

*** 

David calls him at six the next morning. 

“Ugh, what did you do?” Tony snaps into the phone. 

“We just need you to come in,” David says frantically. “It’s an emergency.” Before Tony can even begin to respond, he hangs up. 

Tony bursts through the door fifteen minutes later, preparing for the worst. “All right, what have you all set on fire now?” 

He gets no response. The Langham is still and quiet, but also too well-let. The chairs are set around the tables, the tablecloths arranged neatly, and one table for two in the middle of the restaurant has two places set, one cup of coffee set next to each of them. 

“David?” he called cautiously. The reply was a soft crash and loud swearing from the kitchen. 

“Adam.” 

Tony wonders if he should leave, but a moment later Adam emerges from the kitchen, smiling nervously. “Hi,” he says. “I, uh, asked David to call you. There’s no emergency.” 

“I can see that,” Tony says. “Adam. Why am I here?” 

Adam walks across the room to the one table that’s been set and pulls out one of the chairs. “I wanted to make you breakfast,” he said. “You didn’t give me a chance to, and I just thought you might want me to now. Could you--do you want to sit down?” 

He looks so nervous that the expression seems out of context on his face. Tony can feel a painful thread of hope twisting around his heart. He steps forwards and sits down. 

“What did you make?” he says, taking a sip of black coffee. 

Adam’s face breaks into a relieved smile. “Crepes,” he says eagerly. “Strawberry. Your favorite. I’ll just go get those now.” 

“You should,” Tony says evenly. 

Adam backs into the kitchen, smiling a little maniacally. 

He reemerges a few minutes later and sets a plate done in front of Tony. It’s not that kind of thing Adam would usually make, but it’s beautiful--perfect golden brown crepes, the strawberries arranged in an elaborate floral pattern, a light and measured dusting of powdered sugar. It’s like everything else Adam makes--it’s art. 

“Go ahead, eat,” Adam says. Looking a little desperate, he picks up his own coffee and chugs about half of it. 

The crepes are delicious, and familiar. “This is what you made the first time you cooked for me,” Tony says. 

Adams beams. “I was hoping you would notice. I was hoping you would want to talk, actually.” 

“I appreciate that you wanted to be there for the funeral,” Tony says. “I don’t know… what you want to talk about.” 

“I wanted to apologize.” He’s not quite making eye contact, fidgeting with the fork next to his plate. I don’t regret kissing you, but I should have talked to you. I should have told you that I meant it.” 

“Are you serious about this?” Tony says softly. “I need to know that you mean this… that you aren’t going to change your mind.”

“I am,” Adam says. “I’m a better person now, Tony. I’m the kind of person who knows what he wants now, and isn’t going to throw that away” 

“Are you?” 

“Yes.” He’s reaching out, tentatively covering Tony’s hand in his, and for once Tony doesn’t feel inclined to push him away. “I came to London because I wanted to see what kind of chef I would be if I stopped trying to destroy myself and the minute we were in the kitchen again together I knew that we were good for each other.” 

“And what else?” Tony murmurs. Adam’s eyes are too close, too blue. 

“And I can’t stop thinking about you,” Adam says, his voice breaking a little. “I know I don’t deserve you. I never did. But I’m better with you.” 

This time, Tony is the one who leans forward, but Adam meets him halfway.


End file.
